Troubled Souls
by Goateeman
Summary: Bitter at the world for the injustice done towards them, two homicidal teenagers plan out a massacre of their school the likes of which have never been seen before. Armed with black market weaponry, homemade explosives, and a thirst for blood, the two boys set out to take revenge against a world that has wronged them. But being transported to Equestria has complicated things.


**A/N - I decided to rewrite the story, and give it a more serious tone to it. Updates won't be frequent, but they'll come out when they're ready. Enjoy - Goateeman**

 _My God journal, it's almost done. After a solid year of planning and preparing, we're ready to exact our revenge on those who have wronged us. Once our plan goes into action, it'll be complete fucking anarchy. Imagine the hundreds that will be fleeing from us as we dish out destruction the likes of which have never been seen before! The fires, the explosions, God, I can feel the adrenaline coursing through my veins as I write this. The waiting is killing me._

 _But before we can do any of that shit, Sickle and I have a few loose ends to tie up. The two of us are going to shoot the last of our video diaries today. We're going to show off our equipment and explain our master plan. I can already see the headlines:_

" _TWO WHITE TEENS SHOOT UP SCHOOL, NO ONE GIVES A SHIT"_

 _Seriously, it really has gotten to that point if you think about it. It's like every other week I hear about another school shooting, and no one really cares. Oh they'll pretend to, they'll say shit like "That's horrible" or "Oh my!" But give it a few hours and everyone will forget it ever happened. Then once another shooting happens, people will feign being shocked, and the news cycle continues. For a school shooting to stand out in this day in age, the death toll has to be in the double digits, the age of the victims must be in the single digits, and you have to have a history of mental issues. It's a sad affair, but it makes front page covers like you wouldn't believe, and that's all that really matters to the media._

 _And let's not forget the identity politics that will be involved. I guarantee you the republicunts on Faux News will blame liberals and the media like they do every time a school is shot up. Then you'll have the democunts advocating for stricter gun laws, most of whom will call me a bigot because I use politically incorrect names in my literature._

 _To those of you in the future reading this: I don't give a fuck if you're a nigger, dyke, spic, or cracker, I hate all of you equally._

 _And lastly we can't leave out the stupid fucking rules the school system will implement after this, for which I extend my apologies. You'll have the schools implement more zero tolerance policies, which have been shown to not work. And there's no doubt they'll bring in more counselors to try and help students with their "trauma". Does anyone else find that weird, that high schools are so fucked up that counselors are needed for the students? Am I just the only one? Apparently I am…_

 _I'm still trying to figure out what my last words will be. I'm one for show, so I want it to be something that'll stand out, you know? Like, I could go with the classic, if a bit cliché, dramatic monologue. I could yammer on about how the human race has fallen beyond redemption, and how the kids at school should have seen this whole thing coming, but I think the pigs would be up my ass by the time I stop._

 _Perhaps I could go with the psychotic confession. As I'm executing motherfuckers I could go up to my crush and confess my love for her, right before blowing her fucking head off. That'd be nice, but I just forgot I don't have a crush. Every girl at my school is either a fucking know-it-all, or so stupid that I wouldn't be surprised if they need instructions on how to breathe. What a shame, some of them have asses that could crush a coconut._

 _Or maybe I could go with the explosive outrage. I could start throwing shit around and start demanding what I did to deserve the punishment I had received from them for so long. It would be nice for them to be at the ass-end of the abuse this time. But I've already expended the pent up rage on the hundreds of watermelons Sickle and I got from the market, and I already know why I've been abused for my entire school career. It's simple, I'm not rich, neither is Sickle, and they hate us for it._

 _That's why I've always hated prep schools; they're filled with nothing but rich assholes living off the success of their parents. I can distinctly remember one time during lunch I overheard a couple of sneakerheads talking about how they just got "$150 kicks yo!"that their parents paid for. WHO THE FUCK SPENDS $150 ON FUCKING SHOES! Wasn't shoe collecting a girl thing or something?! Well, considering they're complete and utter fags, it doesn't surprise me in the least._

 _For years I kept telling mom and dad that I didn't like going there, and that it was a waste of $10,000 dollars. But they thought that since they were paying so much, I was getting a good education. I wasn't. The teachers there do not give a single fuck about the students they teach. All they do is tell us to go to a specific page in our textbooks, and just do the questions on it. They don't even bother to get off their asses to help a student with a question. All they do throughout the class is go on Facebook and eat whatever food happens to be around. Let's not forget that students aren't allowed to eat in class, nor are we allowed to access any social media of any kind. Fucking double standards…_

 _I've already ranted about this shit in the past; it's no use wasting more paper over it._

 _I got to go journal, Sickle is waiting for me._

 _Hammer_

(**********)

As I closed the journal a sudden thought came to me. My life was a complete and utter fucking cliché. Seriously, I'm not exaggerating. I'm a short, nerdy, misanthrope that dresses in dark colors and listens to heavy music (Extra points to me for going down the whole "shooting up a school" path.) I would normally find it sad that my entire life has been a cliché, but nothing I do is normal anymore.

What the hell is normal anyway? Who's to say what normal is or isn't. How does one define normal? This is why being normal doesn't make any fucking sense. No matter what you do, someone will think what you're doing isn't normal. And since when the hell was being normal a good thing? What has a normal person ever done for the good of humanity? It's the motherfuckers that go against the status quo that make this country what it is. So fuck anyone that says being weird is a loser, bunch of god damned cunts…

I should really get back on track shouldn't I?

I got up from my desk and started my morning routine. Mom always left for work early on Sunday mornings, her reason being it will impress her boss. This meant that I had free reign of the house on Sundays, and boy did I take advantage of that. I would play music as loud as I wanted whenever I took a shower; eat Smarties for breakfast, and do whatever my little black heart desired. This day was no different.

After my shower I got dressed in my favorite clothes, the clothes I would wear during the slaughter. The kids at school would make fun of me and say I looked like a school shooter.

Oh god the irony.

The outfit was very simple: A white t-shirt, black cargo pants, white sneakers, and a black zip-up hoodie. None of the clothes had any writing on them, I hated that shit. I'm a simple man with simple tastes. Sickle is the only person that was allowed to do that, at least the words on his shirt meant something. I HATE those stupid fucking t-shirts with the phrase "YOLO" on it, and anything to the effect of "I'm sexy." No you aren't you fat tub of shit. You make Michael Jackson look like a Miss America contestant. Fuck your neck beard, fuck your fedora, and no I don't want a fucking warranty on my CD! Stop asking me that every time I buy one you asshole!

…I may have some issues to work out.

Anyway, once I was dressed I couldn't help but admire myself in the mirror. For me, it was the little things that made up who I was. The spiked brown hair, the tiny mole on my left cheek, the five o'clock shadow, all of _really_ made me who I was; the clothes just enhanced it all. I don't know why I was getting all sentimental about myself at that point, maybe the looming massacre had something to do with. I don't know.

Once I was done basking in my utter beauty, I locked up the house and drove to Sickle's house on the edge of town. Sickle's dad was somewhat affluent, and owned a large area of woodlands on the edge of town. Since Sickle lives in such a remote area, and his dad at work most of the time, it was the perfect place to store and test our equipment. Sickle had set up a small firing range and everything; it was perfect for us…

You're probably wondering who this "Sickle" character is, aren't you? Well, let me explain.

Sickle has been my best and only friend since the fifth grade. We became friends due to our love of NASCAR believe it or not. The first day of fifth grade I came in with a Dale Earnhardt Jr. T-shirt, and Sickle commented on how he liked him too. From there it turned out we liked a lot of the same things, and from there blossomed a friendship that would segregate us from the rest of the pack. They hated how we were so close, they hated that our friendship meant something. They would mock, calling us queers, fags, and homos, but its all projection. In hindsight, the insults were worth it. There's not a single person on this earth I would want to call my friend but Sickle.

The drive to Sickle's house was fucking unbearable. The CD player in my truck was broken, the radio was playing nothing but pop music, the drivers on the road were compete dickheads, it was agony. I swear the people in this town have never heard of blinkers before. I mean, here I am, minding my own fucking business trying to turn at an intersection, when this fag in a minivan runs a red light and nearly fucking kills us both. And the worst part of it is he had the fucking _nerve_ to flip _me_ off.

And people wonder why I'm a misanthrope…

After all that bullshit I finally arrived at Sickle's house. The modest two story house stood out amongst the sea of trees, giving it a feeling of isolation, a feeling that I appreciated. No one would come back here, no one would question the loud noises, no one would find out anything. Like I said before, it was the perfect place for our operation.

After entering Sickle's house I walked upstairs to the loft he made into his bedroom. As usual Sickle was blaring Rammstein from the stereos. It's a good thing Sickle and his dad didn't have any close neighbors, otherwise I'm sure they'd get noise complaints out the ass. I stood outside Sickle's door, knocking on it, waiting for him to notice I had arrived. After a few moments I lost my temper and banged on the door.

"HEY ASSHOLE, I'M HERE, OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR!" I yelled over the music. The music died down to a reasonable level and the door was opened, revealing my friend and future hell-mate. Like me Sickle was wearing the outfit he'd wear during tomorrow's massacre: A plain black t-shirt, urban camouflage pants, combat boots, a backwards cap that covered his blonde hair with the immortal phrase "Don't Tread on Me," and a long black trench that covered everything else with. Top it all off with a badass pair of shades and you got yourself the other half of the two man army that would wreak havoc on their community.

"Sorry about that, just got in the mood, you know? Come on in." Sickle's room was nothing short of a shrine to the thing he loved the most, America. Seriously, over his bed Sickle had hung an American flag, a "Don't Tread on Me" flag over his desk, and had a bookshelf filled with books on the military, American history, and other shit American related. Before this whole "Shooting up our school thing" came about, Sickle had planned on joining the military, but was denied to his "violent past" as they put it. That day Sickle got rejected was the angriest I had ever seen him. I would go into further detail, but that's entire story on its own.

Sickle went to his desk and pulled out a piece of paper that had the plan of attack on it. He spread the construction paper over his desk and motioned me to come over to him.

Operation D.O.O.R was the name of our plan. The acronym stood for "Drunk on Our Rage," which was fitting because the day of the massacre was March 17, St. Patrick's Day. We gave it the tagline "Opening the D.O.O.R for the final time." We thought it sounded cool, kind of like a movie poster. Every plan needs a name, and that's what we chose.

"Okay, I know you know this plan inside and out, but I just want to go over it one more time for clarity." Sickle said. I nodded and he continued.

"Phase 1 of this operation: We enter the gym through the side doors at exactly 6:45 A.M. using the key you stole from the janitor. The two of us then split off and set up the bombs in both of the locker rooms. We then wait in the storage rooms of the locker rooms until 8:00 A.M., when the seniors come for gym class. Once we're sure everyone is in the locker rooms, we begin phase 2."

"Phase 2: After the bombs explode, we open fire on the fuckers. The locker rooms are small, so they'll be cornered. Thrown in the fact they'll dazed by the bombs, and it should make for easy killings. Aim for the head, kill as quickly as possible, and rendezvous outside the locker rooms. From there we reload and make our way to the office. By this point someone would have heard the shots and made their way towards the gym. Kill any motherfucker in our way, the more bloodshed the better. Once we enter the main school building we enter the office where all the high school faculty will be holding a meeting about prom. From here we trap them inside the office, get everything we want to say off our chests, and execute the motherfuckers. On to phase 3."

"Phase 3: We set up a defensive position inside the office, and set traps for the cops that will no doubt be making their way to the school by now. From here, I make my upstairs and set up in the library. Then we see how many pigs we can slaughter before they eventually stop our rampage, once and for all cementing the two of us as America's deadliest school shooters." Sickle put the plans away in his desk and pulled out a shot glass. He got up from the desk and walked to his closet where he grabbed a bottle of "Absolut" vodka and poured himself a shot.

"Now" Sickle said, bringing the shot glass to his lips "Any questions?" I smiled and grabbed another shot glass from his desk.

"Mind pouring me some of that shit?" Sickle smiled and grabbed the bottle of vodka.

"Since when did you start drinking?" He said, pouring me my glass.

"Well, there's a first time for everything, isn't there?" The two of us raised our glasses into the air and tapped them together.

"Here's to underage drinking!" I said as the two of us took our shots. Sickle, having built up a tolerance to the vodka over the past months, voiced no complaints as the alcohol slid down his throat. Me on the other hand, well…

"Gah fuck!" I coughed "It's like drinking liquid fire, fuck!" I coughed some more as Sickle sat on the corner of his bed, laughing.

"Well, I would have warned you, but I just couldn't let the opportunity pass by." Sickle got up and hid his vodka and shot glasses away from sight.

"You're an asshole, you know that right?" I said as the burning sensation finally began to wear off.

"Not as much as you are. I still remember that time you put a ghost pepper in my sandwich, consider this payback. Now come on, we got a video to shoot!" Sickle grabbed his video camera off of his dresser and the two of us left for our "headquarters" as we called it.

About half a mile into the woodlands that surrounded Sickle's home, the two of us had set up a tent in an opening where we stored all our equipment. Sickle had placed a lock on the tent just to be safe though. You never know when some random asshole could show up and potentially fuck over your entire plan.

Once we arrived, Sickle started setting up the camera on the tripod he kept in the tent, while I grabbed all our equipment and put it on display on the tables we had set up. Once I was done setting up the equipment, Sickle pressed the record button and starred filming.

"It's on right?" I asked.

"Yeah, you can start whenever you're ready."

"Bitch I was born ready!" I chuckled.

"Then fucking go already!" Sickle retorted.

"All right Mr. Cameraman, let's do this." I walked out in front of the tables and calmly introduced myself to the police who would no doubt be watching this tape in the future.

"Hey there, nice to meet you" I waved to the camera "By the time you are watching this, I'll be dead, along with my friend behind the camera. Say hello Sickle." Sickle reached his hand over the camera lens and promptly flipped it off. I laughed and continued with my introduction.

"By the time you watch this we will have committed the worst high school shooting in American history. I'm sure you'll want to know our motives, our plans, and how we got all the equipment needed, and by the end of the video you'll know. But you'll have to wait as we show off our "Tools of the Trade" so to speak." I walked around the tables and grabbed my personal favorite instrument of death.

"This right here is a Remington 870 pump shotgun with its barrel and stock sawed off. It holds four shells in the tube plus one in the chamber. The shortened barrel causes increased spread of the buckshot, great for crowds, not so great for range. But I found the range problem can be solved with this beauty." I put the shotgun back on the table and picked up the second weapon in my arsenal.

"This gun man, this fucking gun…I've always seen these in the movies, but to actually hold one, to actually fire one, it's an honor really. What I'm holding in my hands is a fully automatic Uzi submachine gun fresh out of the black market. Firing at a modest 600 rounds per minute, this piece of Israeli machinery is the quintessential bad guy weapon, and you can't get more fucking bad than us!" I pointed the Uzi at the camera and made fake machine gun sounds with my mouth.

"Bang, you're dead!" I exclaimed.

"Still a kid at heart I see." Sickle said.

"Damn right I am!" I put the Uzi back on the table and picked up my sidearm of choice.

"If Call of Duty taught me anything, it's that switching to your pistol is always faster than reloading. And for my pistol, I'm using a .38 revolver that I 'borrowed' from my deadbeat father. Thanks dad, I guess you're good for something after all!" I put the revolver down on the table and moved on to the final weapons in my arsenal.

"And over here we can see an assortment of homemade pipe bombs and Molotovs made by our friend behind the camera, Sickle. Tell us Mr. Sickle, how easy was it to fashion these devices?" I said in my best reporter voice.

"It was easy as pie." He said in an overly cheerful voice. "All the materials used in those bombs can be bought from your local hardware store, or any place that sells alcohol. Once you know how to do it, its smooth sailing from there."

"Wonderful, you here that kids? You can make your very own pipe bomb at home! Go on you little rapscallions; rein hell on your enemies with bottles of fire and bombs made from pipes! You can do it, I know you can!" I waited a few seconds before bursting into laughter.

"Hey Sickle, you think I would make a good host for a kids' show?"

"That depends on the kind of show now doesn't it? You remember _Legends of the Hidden Temple_ on Nickelodeon?"

"Yeah, you think I could host that?"

"Not only do I think you could host it, I think you should come up with the temple designs. Just think of all the kids that would be traumatized by the fucked up shit you'd come up with!" Sickle and I laughed while the two of us switched roles.

"Now it's my turn in the spotlight motherfuckers!" Sickle said, grabbing his first weapon from one of the tables.

"This right here is your average Ar-15 assault rifle with a retractable stock and foregrip for increased handling. This fucking thing cost me $900, but god damn was it worth it. I can hit a bullseye from 200 yards with this rifle, perfect for when you don't want blood stains on your $125 trench coat." Sickle put the rifle down and picked up his sidearm.

"I got this here Colt.45 from my grandpa as an eighteenth birthday present. I know it's illegal it own a handgun under the age of 21, but, as it turns out, neither my grandpa nor I really give a shit. Laws are only there for the law abiders." Sickle put down his Colt and picked up "Meadow" as he called her. Sickle ran a hand over the weapon, caressing it like the girl he named it after.

"This beauty right here is something different. I'm the kind of the person to lay back and stay out of a fight, but still contribute to it. And this M700 sniper rifle is the tool for the job. I named her Meadow in honor of my first crush." Sickle's smile suddenly morphed into a frown, his eyes expressing nothing but pure, unadulterated rage.

"EVEN THOUGH SHE DOESN'T DESERVE SUCH AN HONOR!" Sickle yelled into the camera. "GOD! I can't WAIT till I put a bullet through her thick fucking skull!" Sickle put the rifle on the table, and took a deep breath.

"And to you fucking Social Justice Warriors that will call me a sexist, I'm not. I'm all for equal pay and equal rights and all that bullshit, I just happen to have a qualm with one particular cunt all right? Whatever, it's not like a rational explanation will stop your bitching anyway." Sickle walked to the tent and grabbed his duffle bag. He put the bag on the table and started disassembling his weapons. "God, now the mood is ruined!"

"So, we're done?" I asked.

"Yeah, pretty much." Sickle said, his voice devoid of any emotion. I turned off the camera and began to pack up my weapons as well.

Sickle was not fond of his former love interest. Let's just leave it at that.

The two of us packed up our equipment and carried it to Sickle's truck. After loading everything into the truck I said my goodbyes and drove back to my house. I spent the rest of the day cleaning my room and writing my final statement. It's weird. I had expected to be more sad about this whole thing. I had expected to be crying, and doubting if this really was the right thing to do. But I guess I've fallen so far I've lost all semblance of my humanity. I'm nothing but a hate fueled machine, hell-bent on the destruction of those who deserve annihilation. And you know what, I'm just fine with that.

The night before everything was supposed to go down was the longest night I've ever experienced. I couldn't sleep at all, how could I? I was going to die the next day, that's a lot for a person to comprehend. Not only that, but my name would be tarnished for the rest of history. I would be vilified by the media as they ignore my reasoning and go on to blame everything in fucking sight. I had to come to terms with that during that night, and I did, if reluctantly so. I still had doubts about the whole thing, even up to that point. But I had come so far, I couldn't quit now.

Since I couldn't sleep, I did what I always did when I was nervous, I wrote. I loved writing more than I loved anything else. Before my spiral into misanthropy I would spend hours writing epic tales of heroic characters going against impossible odds, and coming out on top. My English teacher said I had the most creative mind out of all the students she had taught over her career. So, using my writing skills, I wrote out my manifesto. I explained my life up until this point, why I hated humanity, and why I would go as far as to kill. Never in my life have I ever put so much heart into something in such a short amount of time. I consider it my best work. I decided I would take it with me, and leave it for people to find on my corpse.

I looked at the clock just as I finished typing: 6:02 A.M. The time for retribution has come.

(**********)

It was raining that morning, not the best conditions to be driving in, but I could manage. Since it was so early in the morning there were barely any cars on the road, unlike every other morning. It was a nice change of pace.

When I arrived at Sickle's house I saw him the driveway, loading all the equipment into his truck. My truck was too small to hold everything, so we decided to use his, a silver Ford Sports Trac.

I got out of my truck and followed Sickle inside the house. He led me to the basement where he had his camera set up on its tripod.

"I know this isn't part of the plan" Sickle said "but if you want to make a final statement, now's the time." Sickle walked to the corner of the basement and grabbed a chair. He placed the chair in front of the camera and sat down.

"You mind turning it on?" Sickle asked, his voice shaky as if we was about to cry.

"Not at all man." I said with sympathy. I turned on the camera, and Sickle started speaking.

"Dad, I just want to say I love you. You were there when Tony and mom weren't. Thank you for caring about me, thank you for all the gifts over the years, thank you for treating me like an actual human being." Sickle turned away from the camera and took a deep breath, trying his best to hold back the tears.

"Grandpa, thank you for everything you've done as well. You taught me how to shoot a gun, how to perform first aid, how to do yard work, I thank you for that. I know I complained non-stop about mowing your huge fucking yard, but…" Sickle wiped one of his eyes. "The shit we'd do together afterwards…it was worth it…." Sickle waited a few seconds before continuing.

"I'm human, just like all of you that will watch this. I have feelings, I have a conscience, I know damn well what I'm doing is wrong!" Sickle yelled. "But I was driven to murder by YOU!" Sickle got up from his chair and picked it up, flinging it across the basement.

"I never did anything to you fucks! I never yelled at you, I never made fun of you, I didn't deserve to be fucking bullied for half a decade! I was driven to fucking SUICIDE because of you! I still have the fucking scars from when I tried to hang myself!" Sickle walked up to the camera and pulled down the neck of his trench coat, revealing a faded, but noticeable scar that went around his neck. Sickle walked back from the camera and took another deep breath.

"But it's not like any of you will fucking care. Give it a month or two and you'll forget the shooting ever happened. It happened at Columbine, and it'll happen here too!" Sickle's expression went from a mix of anger and sadness to that of a smile in a split second.

"But that doesn't matter. As long as blood is spilled, I'm happy either way." Sickle walked out of shot and motioned for me to give my final statement. I walked in front of the camera and began to speak.

"I can't add much really" I said "I already wrote a year's worth of journal entries and a manifesto describing my feelings and thoughts on everything. So, all I can really say is, fuck our school, and fuck humanity too." I turned off the camera and followed Sickle back outside to his truck. The two of us entered the truck and just sat there for a moment.

"There's no going back." I said.

"I know." Sickle replied. Sickle started the truck and turned to me with a smirk on his face.

"Rammstein?" He asked.

"Rammstein" I said in return. As we drove away from the house, and Rammstein played in the background, there was only one thing on our minds.

Redemption.

(**********)

The rain was coming down hard as we drove. Even with the windshield wipers on maximum speed we could barely see anything in front of us.

"Hey, wasn't today supposed to be sunny?" I asked.

"Yeah, but those fucks on the weather channel don't always get it right. Also, look under your seat, I got you a present." Being the curious fellow I was, I looked under the seat and saw a literal present, complete with wrapping paper and a bow. I picked it up and began to open it. Inside was something I had been wanting since freshmen year: An SOG tactical tomahawk. It came with its own sheath too!

"Holy shit man, this is awesome!" I said, ripping the blade out of its packaging."

"You're welcome. I got myself a badass machete in my duffle bag. I'll show it to you when we get to the school."

"When did you get the blades? I thought we had everything we needed?"

"I got the blades last night had the hardware store. I thought to myself 'hey, why don't I get Hammer and I something to stab with? That'd be so much fun to do.'"

'You crazy bastard." I said chuckling slightly.

My laughing was cut short by a flash of lighting that went off over our heads.

"Shit!" Sickle said, swerving the car in fright. "That was right over us!"

"I know!" I said "And I can't see shit!" The rain was coming down so hard we had to yell over the sound of water hitting the truck.

"Fuck this man, I have to pull over!" Sickle veered to the side of the road and stopped the truck.

"Fuck! This is going to fucking up everything god damn it!" I yelled

"Calm down man, we just have to wait the rain out, then we'll improvise from there." I found Sickle being the calm and rational one weird. Usually it was the opposite way around.

"Well, what do we do?" I asked.

"Well, we have some time before the rain calms down, so we'll plan everything out right now and…" Sickle was cut short by another flash of lighting, this time it was _much_ louder.

" _ **SHIT!"**_ The two of us screamed. As soon as that flash disappeared another flash appeared after it. The lightning kept striking around the truck, the noise was ear-shattering, I feared for my life.

"WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?!" I yelled over the thunder. I never got a response, because as soon as I said that, everything went black.

(**********)

The first thing I remember waking up to was a massive and almost unbearable migraine. I clutched my head in agony, moaning in pain. It felt as if someone smashed a guitar over my head multiple times.

"Fuck me…what the fuck happened?" I asked to no one in particular. I didn't receive an answer, so I just wallowed in pain for the next few minutes in what felt like the…truck bed? Yeah, I could feel the bed liners on my back, and the sun's rays beating down on my body. Sickle must have moved me into the truck bed, but where the fuck was he?

"Sickle, you out there?" I asked weakly. I heard the sound of boots hitting…gravel? That's what it sounded like anyway.

"Don't worry man, I'm here." I heard Sickle say "Don't worry, the headache goes away after a few minutes."

"Well it's been a few fucking minutes and I'm not feeling any better." I retorted.

"Just wait a little longer, I'm sure it'll go away. I'm going to try to start the truck again." Before Sickle could leave I called out to him.

"Wait dude!" I exclaimed "Do you mind explaining to me what just happened to us. All I remember is being struck by lightning before this." Sickle was quiet for a few moments.

"Um...I know you're not going to believe this, butit seems we were teleported into a…canyon or something." Sickle said, unsure of his own words.

"Bullshit." I said. Sickle was not one to play jokes, but what he just said made absolutely no sense. Forcing the pain aside, I sat up in the truck bed and slowly opened my eyes. It took a while for them to focus, but once they did….I realized Sickle was not fucking around.

Our truck was surrounded by miles and miles of flat, rust colored terrain. In the distance we could see a mountain range that somehow circled the horizon. I was completely stunned, I couldn't even form sentences. So many questions flooded my mind like: How did we get here? Why are we here? And most importantly, how to we get back home. This whole "ending up in a fucking canyon/ravine/wasteland" thing just stopped us from committing our plan. I put my head down in frustration, not even noticing my migraine had gone away.

"Dude." I sighed "What the hell happened?"

"I don't know man." Sickle began "But but standing around with our thumbs up our asses isn't going to solve anything. We need to come up with a plan, and figure this whole thing out."

"You're right." I said, standing up out of the truck bed. "If the past has taught us anything, it's that we're good with planning. We'll get through this." I opened the back door of the truck and grabbed our gear.

"Here" I said, handing Sickle his duffle bag. "Might as well be armed. You have no idea what the hell could be out here."

"Agreed." After the two us armed ourselves, we popped the hood of the truck to see what was wrong with it. The second we popped the hood we knew what was wrong.

"Engine's overheated." Sickle stated "Should be fine if we wait a little bit." The two of us sighed, we were tired of waiting.

For the next five minutes we just stood next to the truck, trying to see if our phones could get a signal. It's not like we could call someone anyway, we just did it so we could fuck around on the various apps we had. While Sickle plugged in some ear buds and listened to music, I was content with the silence. It let me think. Unfortunately, the earth vibrating shook me out of my thoughts. I looked over to Sickle; apparently he couldn't feel it. I tapped him on the shoulder and got his attention.

"You feel that?" I asked. Sickle put away his phone and stood still, concentrating on the sounds around him.

"Yeah, it's coming from underground. What do think it is?" Sickle asked.

"I don't know. Earthquake?" I asked, praying the non-existent gods it wasn't an earthquake.

"I don't think so. The vibrations feel like they're moving." I wanted to facepalm right then.

"No shit Sherlock, vibrations move."

"No you dickhead." Sickle said. "It feels like they're…getting closer." Sure enough, the vibrations were getting more intense the longer we stood there. It all came to a peak when the ground was opened up, revealing five…giant dogs. I couldn't make this shit up if I tried. Five bipedal dogs just came up from the earth, and they were holding fucking _spears_ no less. Two of them were wearing a hulking suit of armor, while the other three wore vests and diamond collars. One of them, I'm assuming the leader, walked up to us, spear in paw…and fucking spoke to us.

"You hairless apes are trespassing on diamond dog territory." It said "We don't like trespassers. We make slaves out of trespassers. That'll teach you for trying to steal from the diamond dogs!"

"Listen." I said, taking a deep breath beforehand, debating whether what I was seeing was real. "Me and my friend here didn't know we were trespassing. We're lost, and we'd appreciate if you tell us the way out of this canyon."

"LIAR!" It growled, raising its spear at me again "Why else would you be in the badlands. You want our gems, and we won't have it!"

"Alright, look here motherfucker." Sickle said, pointing his pistol at the dog. "We don't give a fuck about your gems. We got teleported here by lightning, and we need a way out."

"I've had enough of your lies." The dog growled once more. "Guards, get them!" The two armored guards began rushing towards us, pointing there spears at us. I looked over to Sickle, Sickle looked over to me. The two of us smiled.

After being denied our chance to kill, Fate decided to throw us a bone.

And we couldn't be any happier.


End file.
